The Outsiders (20 page)

The heir let out a plume of smoke and
sighed.

“
The boarding party, Your
Highness, could you elaborate?”

“
Able seamen, Charles
Weaver, Martin Bower and Gavin Herbert went aboard with the First
Mate, Robert Keston-Bloom. All went armed. All went with small
oil-filled lanterns that clipped to their belt buckles. Four good
men. Good, brave men.”

Holmes took his first taste of the
tobacco...and savoured this first bowl of the day.

“
And...?”

“
That was the last anyone
saw of them.”

Another drag from the cigarette.
Another plume.

“
I requested to go on second
party about an hour later. That request was denied by the Second
Officer but thankfully countermanded by the Captain. Eight of us
went this time. We searched every room, hold, nook, cranny.
Everything. Two hours and forty-two minutes later...nothing. Simply
vanished into thin air.”

“
Vanished?”

“
There was something...in
one of the cabins. There was a residue, some kind of slippery
substance on the walls. Yet when the captain went aboard himself,
the walls were dry. Tinder dry. What I am describing is not a
figment of some poet’s fancy, sir.”

“
From what you have
described, I am indeed intrigued and have more than just a passing
interest in looking at this ship.”

“
You have my staff at your
disposal and whatever else you need to take with you.”

Holmes took a small notebook and pencil
from his inside jacket pocket, scribbled a few notes and handed it
to the Prince.

“
What is this?”

“
What I need in terms of
personnel and equipment. I shall need lodgings for Watson and
myself for two days and your best guards on the harbour-side. No
person is to go aboard that ship. My only requests.”

“
The ship was renamed for the trip back to Mallaig. Her new
nameplate reads
Amazon
. Her original name.

“
To deflect attention away,
I am to assume.”

“
Yes, Mr. Holmes. And this
name on the list?”

“
I have to speak with him
first...and he has to come on board with us.”

“
You’ll have
him.”

“
I’ve got one, Holmes!” came
the excited shout from Dr. Watson.

The two men turned to see Watson
holding a wriggling salmon, no more than six inches in length; when
the physician beamed a great smile.

Holmes turned back to Prince
George.

“
I must apologise for my
earlier words,” said Holmes shaking his head at Watson. “Not all of
the fish are beautiful.”

“
Look upon it as an hors
d’oeuvre. Lunch is upon us.”

Two days later, Holmes and Watson found
themselves in the small fishing port of Mallaig. A picturesque
village, neatly tucked away on the coast and home to probably the
best smoked kippers in Europe.

They made their way to their lodgings,
a small boarding house with a sign outside that did little to
welcome anyone; the weather-beaten sign and faded paint did nothing
to enamour the pair to the place but on entering their rooms, they
were pleasantly surprised. The furnishings looked almost new, as
were the cushions, pillows and linens.

It was easy to understand why - in his
room, a note from HRH Prince George wished Holmes a comfortable
stay.

Within thirty minutes of their arrival,
the two men were sitting at a small wooden table, one of six in the
dining room which also served as one of the village taverns. Like
the benches on which they sat, the room was basic. A few barrels
behind a small bar that housed a few shelves where a varied
collection of glasses and bottles fought for the limited space. A
few trinkets hung on the walls in a vain attempt to entice
passers-by into the establishment, along with a couple of nets on
which hung three dead crabs and some shells, a couple of cutlasses
and some nautical oddments. Badly painted landscapes, by fishermen
and sailors given in exchange for a free meal and brew, hung by the
nets. Watson was of the opinion that the landlady, one Mrs. Edna
Plympton, had come off worse in the barter. That was until Holmes
reminded him that they had not eaten any of her food
yet.

After a meal which both men were loathe
to refuse – especially after Watson noted the size of the chef’s
forearms were something akin to the average thigh – they stepped
into the early evening air.

“
Sated, Watson?”

“
Certainly , Holmes.
Couldn’t eat another thing. The local fare was quite
delicious.”

“
It was indeed. Now we must turn our attention to matters at
hand and the
Celeste
.” Holmes checked his pocket-watch. “Excellent, we’ve made
good time today, Watson. And our guest should be waiting for us
alongside its berth about now.”

“
Are you going to tell me
who this fellow is?”

“
One, Joseph Jephson. A
Doctor of Medicine of the University of Harvard, and ex-Consulting
Physician of the Samaritan Hospital of Brooklyn.”

“
An American?
Here?”

“
I was aware of the name when the original stories surrounding
the
Mary Celeste
first surfaced. It was Dr. Jephson who challenged a number of
the official theories and I had heard that he was now teaching to
medical students in Edinburgh, on a two year
sabbatical.”

“
Does he know what he’s
coming to look at?”

“
Oh yes. Prince George was
not surprised when I requested that Jephson join us. Come, Watson.
Let us make haste!”

“
The weather has turned a
little chilly, Holmes.” said Watson as he wound a woollen scarf
around his neck and buttoned his jacket to the top.

“
You, as any, should know
that a good walk after food, especially with bracing sea air, has
got to be good for you.”

Watson face took on a
grimace.

Holmes smiled, ignoring the Doctor’s
ploy to remain inside and began the short walk to the
harbour-side.

Watson stood for while, and realising
that whatever his protest or opinion, Holmes had already shut his
ears and mind to anything that did not involve the case at hand.
But he could at least mutter an insult under his breath while
Holmes was out of earshot.

“
There are times, Holmes,
when I would like to see you consigned to oblivion! That chef had a
fruit crumble for dessert.”

Watson followed.

He always followed.

The haar was beginning to creep across
the local landscape, enveloping all in a soft blanket of a hazy
white; that Holmes knew would eventually bring something like
Cimmerian darkness, hiding all from sight and providing excellent
cover for the predators among them.

Watson had hastened his stride to catch
up with Holmes and found himself slightly out of breath, something
that did not go unnoticed by Holmes.

“
Surely I should be the one
panting, according to your observation of my smoking habit, my
friend.”

“
There is a simple
explanation for my loss of breath, Holmes, very simple. I just eat
too much.”

The pair gave a chuckle.

“
Watson?”

“
Yes, Holmes.”

“
Do you really wish me to be
consigned to oblivion?”

Watson was slightly taken aback at the
comment, realising that he had been caught by his own words and was
now about to be force fed some ‘humble-pie’.

“
How did you...”

“
The following wind, that
you say has made you feel colder, carries sound those few extra
yards...and thus, as you were only a few yards behind me, I heard
the comment.”

“
Quite incredible,
Holmes.”

“
Elemental, my dear Watson,
Elemental.”

The pair disappeared into the
thickening fog. Laughter went with them.

It was no more than five minutes to the
berth where the Mary Celeste now found herself. Not a huge ship and
typical of the commercial carriers of the time.

The years had not been kind to
her.

Numerous owners, some good, some bad, some diabolical – had
all contributed to a history that dated back to 1861 and her
original home in Nova Scotia. It was only after she ran aground and
salvaged in 1867, that she was repaired, refloated and
renamed
Mary Celeste
. Since that fateful day, November 25th, 1872, nothing but bad
luck has followed her, the various crews, owners and companies that
had as much as a passing connection to her.

Death, sickness, murder, fraud and
bankruptcy were now the only words that could be associated with
the ship, an albatross around the neck of any who engaged her
service or ownership. And yet, there was always one thing that drew
folk to her like moths to a flame...the mystery.

And here she sat, almost a quarter of a
century since the disappearance of the Briggs family, her crew and
three passengers, among them Dr. Habakuk Jephson, the well-known
Brooklyn specialist on consumption, and father of Dr. Joseph
Jephson, who now stood, waiting, at the harbour-side.

Dr. Joseph, as he preferred to be
called as there could be only one Dr. Jephson, stared up at the
silent hulk. The mist and almost-full moon, created an incandescent
light behind the ship, turning the rigging into a unearthly cobweb
and her colours, a demonic black. Dr. Joseph could feel it hanging
in the air...a foreboding of some destined change.

He hated this ship.

He was not alone in that thought; the
six guards standing on duty, armed with standard issue rifles,
pistols and with lanterns to guide their way, all had the same
feeling.

“
Can I help you, sir?” said
the most senior of the guards. Sergeant Ambrose Merry. A strapping
man, standing at six feet, six inches and weighing a trim two
hundred and four pounds. He held his lantern high to get a better
look at who he was addressing.

“
My name is Jephson. Dr.
Joseph Jephson.”

Jephson produced documentation as to
his identity and handed it to the officer, who gave it no more than
a cursory glance.

“
May I ask the nature of
your business, sir?”

“
I believe the good doctor
is here to meet with me, Sergeant.” From out of the thickening
gloom came Holmes and Watson.

Sergeant Merry and Jephson turned
toward the pair. Holmes already had a hand extended in
greeting.

“
Sherlock Holmes. Thank you
for joining us, Dr. Jephson. This is my associate, Dr. Watson.”
Handshakes and pleasantries were exchanged.

“
A real pleasure to meet the
famous Sherlock Holmes.”

Holmes turned to the officer, now
standing to attention.

“
Sergeant Merry.”

“
Yes, sir.”

“
It’s good to see you again,
Ambrose. How are Mary and the children?”

“
Fine, as can be
expected.”

“
Sorry to bring you away
from Carrick, but I needed to ensure that not so much as a mouse
got on board that ship.”

“
Been here for just over
thirty-two hours, brought twelve of my best with me.”

“
Would I be right in
assuming the equipment that I asked for, has arrived?”

“
Yes, sir...in one of the
warehouses. One of lads will escort you over. Private Alten, front
and centre.”

A stocky, short man stepped forward,
embraced in a fog of his own breath.

“
Take these gentlemen to the
warehouse and stay with them until the end of your watch. Then
return here and Carson will relieve you. Understand,
Private?”

“
Yes, sir.”

Merry handed a lantern to Dr. Watson. A gesture that showed
that the soldier was a well-bred mixture of boldness
and
courtesy.

“
You’ll need this,
Doctor.”

“
Very decent of you, Officer
Merry.”

Holmes stood forward to address the
officer as Jephson and Watson followed Private Alten.

“
Ambrose, join us at our
lodgings when you have finished. I’m going to need the help of a
number of your men in the morning and need to discuss our
plan.”

“
Our watch finishes at nine,
sir.”

“
Excellent, I look forward
to seeing you there.” Holmes moved in the direction of the
warehouse.

“
Mr. Holmes?”

“
Yes, Ambrose?”

“
You’ve forgotten something.
This.” The soldier held up a lantern.

In the gloom, the Mary Celeste creaked and groaned, her age
showing. A mix of squeals and pops echoed throughout the labyrinth
of empty rooms and holds. The smell was heavy with mildew
and
something
else
that was distinct and yet unplaceable. At first glance, all
appeared normal aboard the abandoned ship. With a brave enough
crew, or one that did not suffer superstitions, it could have
served usefully for a few years yet. Closer inspection, however,
showed that: those days had long passed. A film of mildew had begun
to form on the glass surfaces, causing the moonlight to shine
through darkness in long slits of light like pointing fingers. It
was a night of great silences and spaces, punctuated by squeaking
of ancient timbers.